wtf?


While I was home over Christmas, I had my yearly facial with the awesome esthetician I’ve been seeing since I was 15  (15, and then in the throes of dermatological unpleasantness).  She is the mistress of the art of extraction, and my first visit to her was as much a cultural touchstone of my entry into modern womanhood as my first trip to the gynecologist.  Though no less painful than my first pap, at least the esthetician rubbed my face and shoulders down with essential oils, and I had glowy skin a week later, once the zits she coaxed to the surface and the redness had subsided.  The gyno just poked me with a metal spatula and gave me the pill… which made me break out.  (Sudden stroke of brilliant idiocy – spas that also offer pap smears!  I am trademarking that business idea right now.  Whole Women’s Health & Beauty sees you inside and out!).

Sadly, after treating my skin for almost 15 years and my own mother’s for 30, our esthetician was hanging up her tweezers, imported creams, and bug zapper to retire.  This would be the last proper facial I will have in a while, as I’ve yet to find anyone half as good.

Lying back in the chair, listening to Enya, snuggled in my quilt, wholly safe in the hands of a professional, I was sad, and wanted to mark the occasion somehow.  What about… a lip wax?  I’d been annoyed at the downy hairs on my upper lip for some time.  Terri is the only person I would let wax and pluck my eyebrows, given her skill, and the only person I trusted to tell me if an upper-lip wax would be a terrible mistake, or a bold move forwards. (more…)

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It’s a little move I like to call “The Reverse Douche.”

(Japan brings us Vagina Bubbles from Hell, from Female ninjas:  The Magic Chronicles).

WHERE TO START.  The insistent “breathe!”-cow, the Jamaican (?) rooster, or the key weirdness of the shriveled elf-man and his skinny jeans, displayed to such flexible effect.  Yogie Okey Dokie’s Yogi round-up (sic from video) is the singularly most disturbing thing I’ve received all week, and it is a struggle to pinpoint the most offensive or perplexing thing about it, because there is just so much to work with.  Examples to follow.

  • Um, the opening shot of our new friend Yogie Okey Dokie and his hind-quarters-over-head thing.
  • The dance at 0:18 (trust, it is downhill from here).
  • From 0:31…  I have no words.  NEEMMPPHGGHH… UNGH… yeah, no words.
  • 0:42:  RUN, CHILLEN!!!!  RUUUUUUUUUUUUN!
  • The “chicken scratching in the dirt” at 1:19.
  • What immediately follows (“Nmmmmmemememe.”)
  • What happens right after that (hands-down yogi town.)
  • “Nice anvil, Christian!” at 1:49.
  • Followed by, “Nice tomato!  I’ll save that for my sandwich!”
  • Followed by farm animals going, “Mmmmm, hmmm, mmmm.”
  • VEGETABLE, vegetable, VEGETABLE! (at 2:06) and the subsequent tongue-thrusting insanity.

So… yeah.  Everything IS terrible.  I don’t think yoga for kids is a bad idea at all, and I don’t think that this guy is a pederast – I think he’s just enthused.  But this is such an undeniable and compelling trainwreck I’m pretty sure it qualifies as high art.

A couple of months ago, I Googled myself to survey the search results of my LinkedIn profile, as I wanted to check the prominence of my public internet presence.  Formerly, my profile was satisfyingly amongst the top results, and while my private Facebook page would pull up as well, it is locked down and unproblematic.  This is all important, as I am very likely to be Googled by clients due to my business, and networking is crucial my job.

Imagine my consternation when I discovered that a 20-year-old nude model who shares my “Professional Tailfeather” moniker has been exposing herself all over the internets, granting interviews to taste-questionable websites, and generally undermining the professionalism of Professional Tailfeathers everywhere.  Even worse, she is somehow from my hometown, which has led to a number of dodgy Facebook friend requests (DENIED).  I had sort of blocked this out until my alarmed father sent me a link today to this “bouncy co-ed,” which he had innocently stumbled across whilst researching a midwestern distillery that shares our surname.  Apparently, Undermining-Professional Tailfeather has conquered less literal aspects of the internet search, thanks to our uncommon last name.

Oh, Professional Tailfeathers.  Can we not agree to conduct ourselves with some degree of decorum on the world-wide-whatsit?  One of you already claimed the eponymous Twitter account, with giggly tweets about the X-Factor and underage British binge-drinking.  Should we not agree on some ground rules?  As a small consolation prize, Professional-Tailfeather-the-Naked may be gorgeous and practically illegal, but my LinkedIn profile still trumps her latest pizza-themed, soft-core porn shoot in terms of Google results.  So this is my headline:  Soulless corporate shill beats out bare-breasted-and-pepperonied beauty in the internet search sweepstakes!  At least for now…

This video was emailed around my UK office yesterday and you could tell when someone watched it because of the audible gasp, even though we had all read the accompanying headline and knew what we were about to see.   That headline?  “Cat owners hunt for woman who put pet in wheelie bin.”  Here’s the video:

The mystery middle-aged white woman in Coventry (quickly identified as Mary Bale after the video appeared all over the web) was captured on a family’s security camera dropping their cat, Lola, into a garbage bin.  Walking by, Bale stops to pet the friendly kitty before looking around for witnesses, gripping the cat by its scruff, and dropping it into the garbage before walking away.  Darryl and Stephanie Andrews-Mann searched for the family pet for 15 hours before finding Lola, and were flummoxed as to how the accident occurred – until they reviewed the tapes from their home security camera, which they had installed two years ago after their car was repeatedly damaged by drivers-by.

Darryl, 26, said: “I’d like to know how she would feel if she was stuck in a bin for 15 hours without food or drink.

“It was really hot day outside. I searched nearby alleyways [for Lola] but suddenly heard a tiny meowing coming from the bin. I looked inside and I found her in the bin. She was terrified and covered in her own mess.”

Unsurprisingly, a large crowd was reported to gather outside Bale’s home and death threats were received as the video spread.  The Metro reports that Bale is under investigation by the RSPCA, and her mother was in the unenviable position of defending her daughter’s actions: (more…)

Two weekends ago, I met a friend for late afternoon drinks at a bar across the road.  When I arrived, he’d been soaking up the sun and cider for a couple of hours already, and was sitting with a cheerful group of people I was invited to join.  This included:  Chester from Newcastle; Chester’s Swedish girlfriend, called Em; the bar’s owner, Dave, who is Irish; Dave’s Polish wife; my South African mate, Sean; and their friend, Gary, who is from Edinburgh.  I mention the hodgepodge of nationalities only because this is one of those things I love about London – Sean also lives with a Ghanaian, an Italian, and two Czech lodgers who were all presumably drinking pints in another patch of sun.

As I was a little bit late to the party, the conversation was relaxed and winding.  A popular topic, however, was what substances could be used to spike Gary’s drink without him noticing.  A range of fluids were suggested, with Gary’s enthusiastic participation.  This was mildly amusing, but a bit weird for a bunch of thirty-somethings to be talking about – with two PhDs amongst them, no less.  It was more the stuff of the fifth-grade cafeteria table.  Because four of the group were bartenders, the discussion covered what noxious liquids could be visually disguised in what ranges of seemingly innocuous beverages.  I finally had to pipe up and ask:  What exactly was the deal?

It turned out that one drunken night four months ago, Gary bumped his head getting into a taxi, and suffered a mild brain injury that had left him without a sense of taste or smell.  The loss of smell is called anosmia, but Gary’s principal complaint was that everything tasted of, well, nothing.  Although likely the hundredth time poor Gary was forced to tell the story, we all sat and contemplated this for a while.  (more…)

Very, very thankfully, I have had only two stalkerish episodes in my life, outside of the usual bad-breakup scenarios in which one party has a more difficult time moving on; in that scheme of things, I have been guilty of my own share of unwanted phone calls or emails for the subsequent week after The Bad Talk.  Fortunately, I can take take a hint, and believe that the one or two boyfriends I’ve had who have ended things against my wishes still regard me fondly (I base that on friendly, occasional Facebook hellos that indicate we are in good stead and happy with our mutually infrequent communication).  I wish them well, they wish me well, and there is no drama or involvement.

Yeah, so.  While I have pursued a few guys beyond the point where they displayed disinterest, I can say with honesty that I’ve never harassed anyone or caused them fear (to my knowledge; I am sort of paranoid about that now, but given the “Ice Queen” accusations more commonly thrown my way and my general unwillingness to destroy someone’s car or call their mother to tell them what shits they are, I’m pretty sure I haven’t crossed that obvious, glaring line).  Which is a good thing, as I just spent about four hours of my afternoon reading the entire contents of Psychotic Letters From Men, as fixated on this blog as I was watching the final seasons of The Wire.

I was glued to this site to the point that my live-in Boy Person was annoyed that I would not go out into the rare London sunshine for a walk or a drink, so obsessed was I with reading about Terrible Men and The Women Who Despise Them.  Why is this site so good?  A few reasons. (more…)

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